Like madness, is the glory of this life.
Being your slave what should I do but tend, Upon the hours, and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend; Nor services to do till you require.
Nature her custom holds, Let shame say what it will.
O excellent! I love long life better than figs.
Each substance of a grief has twenty shadows.
Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I'll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.